Don't You Think the Fob Watch is a Bit Old Fashioned?
by Malicious-Little-Me
Summary: Sherlock/Doctor Who AU Master is back and as childish as ever with his silly little games. However his 'silly little games' leads to the downfall of the TARDIS and the regeneration of our favourite Time Lords. Will Sherlock and his brilliant mind find the truth? Or will this be the death of him? (Eventually Johnlock maybe)
1. Chapter 1

**To those who are following me:**  
_I was previously 'Unleashed-Mischief' but I changed it. ^^_  
_If it has caused any inconvenience, I apologise._

**Hia there little cotton tails!**  
**So, this is the prologue to 'Don't You Think the Fob Watch is a Bit Old Fashioned?'**  
**This may turn into a slash fic but I dunno. Let's get through the first couple of chapters first!**  
**Please tell me if there is anything wrong. (Grammatical, spelling or other wise) **  
**Thank you for reading! Please leave a review, I absolutely adore reading them!**

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Prologue

Commands are being thrown at the machine with each breathe.  
It screams as it falls through time and space. Pulsing from an electric blue to a crimson red, illuminating the space surrounding.  
inside, the mad men flick away at the island of buttons around of cylinder of the ever changing light.  
The tallest of the two – a man of bleached blonde hair, hollow pale blue eyes, sinking cheeks, white skin coated in a layer of shinning sweat and his body garbed in jeans and top-too-lose the frame his skinny form- ripped at the panel, pulling off every dial, switch, knob, toggle and turner he came into contact with.  
The shortest – a man with side swept mop of brown hair, deep brown eyes and attired in clothes of Victorian fashion; mahogany jacket and waist coat to match, a silver dangling from his pocket- grabbed at the taller's sweat caked grey top, pulling him away from the consol as he wrenched another hand full of odd buttons off tossing them aside. They fell one by on through the cracks of the floor to be lost among the machine's insides.  
As the buttons fell, the taller as cast aside, landing with a heavy thud. Blood started to pour from the man's nose. He wiped what he could off with his sleeve, staining the fabric- what remained left a carmine trail spread from mouth to ear.  
As the taller had fallen, the shorter got to the claviature, pushing the pieces back together, forcing back the tears as he watches an old friend die. He turned as he heard the other speak.  
"Resorting to violence, Doctor?" The taller said mockingly as he stands with as much pride a possible, the red smear catching the shorter's eye. "How far you have fallen from the warrior I knew!" malice intertwined with his tone.  
The man, now named Doctor, span so his back was to the other, ignoring his comments. His eyes started to prickle and in moments the damns of his broke to streams of salty tears.  
"Don't you die on me," he crocked as he caressed the panel with his fingers as though the machine was in fact a breathing being- though who's to say it wasn't. "Not now."  
The taller strode towards the console, as Doctor was lost in thought, with the full intentions of completing his little task.  
Seeing a hand move its way to the only part of the island that hadn't been harmed, Doctor gripped his hand with as much force as he could muster.  
"Don't _touch_ my TARDIS again." He growled.  
"Now Doctor, you should know you shouldn't get so attached to your _pets_."  
Doctor's head stayed fixed on the damage done to his friend, not leaving the sight for a second. This fuelled his rage, making the grip even tighter.  
His hand was like a vice. However, if Doctor was as strong as he felt at the moment, if the taller was feeling any pain at all, then it did not show. Madness. Etched in every corner of his face was complete and total madness.  
They would have stayed that way –a lost soul losing hope over his friend's recovery and a man taking pleasure from the sight-longer if it weren't for the TARDIS. Almost as if she could feel the blood boiling in their veins, she swerved in such a way that caused the two to be split apart. Doctor had lost his grip on the taller's wrist and grabbed hold to the panel before he could be thrown across the room, the other was tossed so that he was almost cast out through the doors. Almost. He had reached out just in time for him to take hold of the frame.  
The TARDIS took a few more tosses as they were both flung from side to side.  
Doctor's head hit metal at the final toss. Even with a wave of dizziness crashing over him, he grasped the device. Holding it he realised that the object in his hands was the device that could rewrite his DNA. A helmet of intricate design, elaborate inscriptions running across the sides, suspended in the air with what seemed to be a green string of flesh, metal cold against his fingers.  
For a heartbeat, he forgot the danger around him. Time seemed to stop.  
"Are you sure?" he whispered as he stroked the (what looked like) iron that gave shape to the contraption.  
As though in response, the TARDIS began to catch alight, sparks bursting in every direction, flickers of fires starting to burn. Doctor took that as a sign of 'yes'. He strapped the device to his head and ripped the watch, engraved with the language of his people, from his pocket, taking a strip of brown cloth with it.  
The risk to this, however, was great. He knew he moment he clicked the watch in its place he'd forget everything he was. He would be rebuilt. A stranger would be running around wearing his skin. And himself, he would be tucked away deep inside the safe subconscious of his mind.  
Reality snapped into place as the taller stumbled towards him – obviously upset with the way things had panned out- murder in his eye.  
Doctor shut his eyes as tight as manageable in the hopes that maybe it was all a bad dream.  
With the image of flaring lights, roaring flames and a mad man coming straight towards him fresh behind his eye lids, he brought up the object for metal and metal to connect.  
But, before the watch was in place, the ground beneath his feet vanished as he felt eternity pass him by.

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**A/N: Thank you again for reading!**  
**A review would be much appreciated!**

**Should we have tea some time?  
(* ˘⌣˘)◞[_] [_]ヽ****(•⌣• )**


	2. I'll tell thee everything I can

**A big thank you to all who read and reviewed!  
A reply to anon is down the bottom!  
Please enjoy!x**

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London, England, 3rd of August 2003

There's no such thing as absolute darkness when you live in London city.  
Always lights, no matter how dim, illuminating streets- wet, foul smelling and cramped- and buildings- each one taller than the last, seemingly built purely for the reason of touching the grim, dismal sky, some seemed to be made completely of glass.  
They contained vast amounts of history. For each person that merely walked by, the ground would record it.  
Even in the dark the detail was still magnificent.  
Though that was the least of his interests.  
A man of black curly hair riddled with mud, face hollow as though sustenance had never reached his lips, garbed in rags, stumbled across streets.  
His eyes were a stunning mixture of blues and greens flaked with gold, however they were mad and confused. They were lost.  
He was lost.  
He fell from stone wall to stone wall, iron gate to plastic pipe, staggering to where exactly he did not know. He just knew that forward was the best choice.  
In a haze, he came to a sign: Rossmore Road. He let his weight fall against the steel pole. His head was racing, bits and pieces not making sense, a puzzle not fitting together.  
As he caught his breathe, a searing pain traced along his skull.  
Wincing, he put his hand to his hair slicked with blood. Without glancing at his hand he knew what it was. He had to run. Something kept pushing him forward.  
While he took a few turns in what might have been the right direction, rain started to fall. At first it was the odd drop or two but the heavy clouds above gave way to floods. The blood on his head trickled down his forehead, along his cheek bone and under his chin, dropping on to his clothes or the floor in regular intervals.  
However, the only thing he could focus on was forward.  
'_One last turn. You can rest in a minute. You're almost there_.'  
He stood outside a large black oak door bearing a golden door knocker placed so that it was at eye level, the handle screwed to the right and a plate of numbers, maybe letters, slightly above the knocker.  
All he did was stand. Letting blood and rain soak his tarnished clothing.  
He was fixed to the door, eyes not leaving it for a second. Was it important? He didn't know. He just knew that could stop.  
At that moment, the door swung open. A women with umbrella in hand, dressed in a dark purple cotton coat that covered her flower patterned dress and on her feet were black t-strapped shoes, stood in the thresh hold.  
She was old, but well-aged. Skin covered in wrinkles but still a pretty lady.  
She gave a slight screech as she saw the man drenched in water, partly covered in a red liquid she rightly assumed as blood, still heaving slightly from his run.  
the first face he saw before his legs gave out beneath him and darkness followed shortly.

Garbed in white. Sitting in a sterile bed of blue.  
He remembers waking up to this sight of too-bright-lights that had put his head in a daze. Before that, however, everything is dim light and cold brick.  
Police officers were called. Questions with no answers were asked.  
He caught one of their names briefly. The detective's. A Mr Lestrade he thinks.  
Somehow he knew more about the detective than he realised. That he was single, living alone – Toothpaste in the left corner of his mouth- , that despite his name he wasn't French – something to do with the arch of his nose- and that he has a rivalry with the other detective; Tabias Gregson.  
He had knowledge he didn't even know he had. He knew things just by the smallest of details; the cuffs on a shirt, a hair on the trouser leg, even the meagre smell of perfume. Somehow everything was so clear when his mind was in such a blur.  
That was all an hour ago. Every detective that spoke to him left more uncomfortable than when they came. Now he was in silence, apart from the odd few doctors, nurses or patients that made their way past his door.  
The doctors have said that he'll be fit to leave in a few hours, as he arrived unconscious but suffered nothing more than a concussion.  
Apparently he had been here for days. It certainly didn't feel like it.  
He lets a sigh escape his lips as he closes his eyes and massages his throbbing temples.  
A knock at the door disrupted whatever thoughts he was having. A nurse of middle-eastern origin clothed in a navy, pined with a badge reading 'Nichola Dhawan' (this brought him to the conclusion that she had Indian heritage. Dhawan meaning 'messenger on the field of battle') and holding a cork clip board with a variety of names opened the door for a taller gentleman.  
"Take all the time you need, Mr Holmes." She spoke before letting the man step inside and closing the door shortly after.  
The man stood at full height of 1.85 m at least. Mr Holmes was adorn in dark blue blazer, waistcoat and tie, carrying a black umbrella with a bent silver tip from where he had been leaning on it. At least, that what he had observed.  
"Good morning, Sherlock." He was stern but he caught a slight banter in his tone. "Or should I say Good afternoon."  
Mr Holmes proceeded to pull up a chair and sit next to him, back still straight, hands resting on the umbrella.  
"Sherlock." The bedded man repeated in a slow whisper. "Is that my name?" Even quiet, Mr Holmes was able to catch his voice. And worry took hold of his stern features. Mr Holmes must have realised how serious the situation really as his posture shifted from poised to a slight slouch.  
"Yes." Came the sullen reply.  
He had a name. Even as odd as it was, it was his. "Thank you, Mr Holmes." Were the words that he could scrap from his throat.  
"My name," the man said calmly and gradually as though speaking to a child, "is Mycroft."  
Sherlock's eyes hadn't moved off the man's face. Something was incredibly familiar. Had this sense of familiarity been there before?  
At those words, Sherlock let his eyes fall to his hands in his lap. They had been playing with a sting of lose cotton of the sheets.  
"Mycroft." Sherlock breathed. "Mycroft Holmes. My brother."  
Something clicked like gears in clockwork jolting to life after being left alone for years. Where had that come from?  
_'Is he really my brother?' _Is thought was filled with doubt and confusion. More so than before.  
As confirmation he turned his head to right to see a smile of relief crawl across Mycoft's lips. He sighed inwardly.  
That 'click' of machinery that was his memory kicked into life. The rust and cobwebs that had been keeping them stiff seemed to fall off. The gears started to grind and everything that had ever happened to him, everything that he knew, everything he was, he remembers.  
The next hour or two was taken up by a game of yes or no.  
Sherlock would recall a memory and Mycroft would say if it were true or false.  
He started to realise the person he was. Sherlock didn't know if the person he is was good or not but as he had little to compare with he stayed with what he now knew.  
He had no idea where these memories had been; his mother and father, his schooling years, his first case. He just knew that this was him.  
Now that he had this, he didn't want to lose it.

Did he?

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**Candypheonix: Thank you so much! I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations!**

**See you next time guys!  
Please drop a review because I truly love reading them! :)**

**Care for some tea?  
(。・‿・****)_且**


	3. AN: I am so sorry

**A/N: Hello there reader!**

**I am sorry nothing has been posted but I've been in hospital and I have lost my docs/papers.  
There will be no more of this fan fic and I am gravely sorry to disappoint.  
Thank you for reading what I had posted.  
I shall leave this here for a week and then delete the whole story.**

**I'm sorry.**

**Thank you for reading.**


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